The Black Cat | Page 9

Don't bother about it, but come and sit down. Have a cigarette? (_Gives him a cigarette._)
Fitzgerald.
Thanks.
(_They sit down, Fitzgerald lights cigarette, and puffs solemnly before he speaks again._)
Mrs. Smith (_puff_), you didn't know her well? Did you, Mrs. Denham? (_Puff._)
Mrs. Denham.
No--not well.
Fitzgerald.
You know I painted her portrait (_looks at lighted end of cigarette_), portrait (_leans back in his chair, replaces cigarette in his mouth, and puffs again. Then putting his hands behind his head, he stretches out his legs, and looks at the ceiling_), so I knew her like my own sister. (_Puff._) She was a pretty little devil (_puff_), awfully aristocratic, mind you, vulgar, of course, an'--an' poor refined little Smith just _didn't_ drop his H's. (_Puffs, chuckles to himself._) Yes, she was a born jade. (_Puff._) I--I liked her awfully. (_Puff._)
Mrs. Denham.
You seem to like every one awfully.
Fitzgerald.
(_with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his half-smoked cigarette_) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.
Mrs. Denham.
It comes too near me.
Denham.
A cab at the door; this may be Vane. (Crosses L _to fire._)
Fitzgerald.
Vane? That's splendid! He cuts me dead now, because I reviewed his last Society Verses, with some other men's, under the head, "Our Minor Poets," in Free Lances.
Denham.
Oh, an editorial? Serves you right, you Jack-of-all-trades. How if some brother Minor Critic were to class you as a Minor Painter?
Fitzgerald.
For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.
(_Enter Jane, showing in Vane._)
Jane.
Mr. Vane!
(_Exit Jane._)
(_Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially._)
Denham.
Ah, Vane, glad to see you.
Vane.
How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.
Mrs. Denham.
Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me for a moment.
(_Exit Mrs. Denham._)
Denham.
Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?
Fitzgerald.
Upon my word I scarcely know. Do we know each other, Vane?
Vane.
My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me? (_Crosses to picture._)
Fitzgerald.
Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (_Fitzgerald turns away, and takes up Gyp. Vane looks at the picture._) What's this? "Autour du Marriage," eh? (_Opens book, and reads, then lies on sofa, still reading._)
Vane.
Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why will you do such things?
Denham.
What have I done?
Vane.
Not what you have tried to do--to paint an epic picture.
Denham.
Is that wrong?
Vane.
Worse than wrong; it is a _bêtise_. (_Comes to fire, and stands with his back to it._) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such things are certainly long, and as certainly not poems. That huge thing is not a picture.
Denham.
Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?
Vane.
Not only should not, but in our present state of development, cannot. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the consummate flower of the national art of the period. It will take at least a century to perfect and exhaust it. Have you seen my book, "Three Quatrains"?
Denham.
No; have you published it lately?
Vane.
My dear Denham! I never publish anything. In a wilderness of mediocrity obscurity is fame.
Denham.
Yes, a well-advertised obscurity. But surely you have published poems?
Vane.
Where have you lived, my dear fellow? I breathe a poem into the air, and the world hears. If some one prints it, can I help it? One does not print, wake, and become famous; one becomes famous, and the world awakes, cackles, and prints one.
Fitzgerald.
By-the-bye, Vane, there's a quatrain in your "In the House of Hathor" I wanted to ask you about.
Vane.
Which?
Fitzgerald.
Let me see--it begins:
"I saw a serpent in my Lady's heart,"--
Vane.
Ah! spare me the torment of hearing--
Fitzgerald.
Your own lines?
Vane.
_Mur_-dered!
"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart, Lovely and leprous; and a violet sigh Shook the wan, yellowing leaves of threnody, Bruised in the holy chalice of my Art."
Fitzgerald.
Ah yes! I didn't quite catch the meaning.
Vane.
Meaning? It is a piece of _mu_-sic, in which I have skilfully e-_lu_-ded ALL meaning.
Fitzgerald.
Oh, I see! (_Resumes his book._)
Denham.
(_to Vane_) Have a cigarette? (_Denham offers him a cigarette; he takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box._)
Vane.
Thanks, no--I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.
Denham.
Really? What do you do then--_absinthe_?
Vane.
For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (_He sighs._) I have tried haschish.
Denham.
Well?
Vane.
Without distinct results--for one's style, that is.
Denham.
Oh!
Vane.
One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghilé. It involves the black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive progress--even to the _Har?m_. One pities the superfluous woman, there are so many about.
Denham.
Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.
Vane.
It was so dreadfully upholstered!
Denham.
The _Har?m_ would be a new field for the collector. How prices would run up!
Vane.
Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things! (_Crosses to picture._)
(_Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with the book in his hand, and breaks in._)
Fitzgerald.
This Gyp's awfully good. Who is he, eh?
Vane.
(_with patient